Fan of Fiction
by gopadfoot
Summary: Sherlock discovers fanfiction. John is at fault. Will Baker Street fall? A series of drabbles.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** For a change of pace from all the angst and heaviness I've been writing, here is a lighter piece. I may continue with this, if I get some ideas. Enjoy!

* * *

"Bored," said Sherlock. "Bored, bored bored."

The poor, abused wall received another hole with an accompanying "bang!"

"How in the world did you find my gun, again?" John complained. "I thought I had it well hidden!"

"Really, John?," Sherlock smirked. "In the laundry hamper?"

"We'll, it's not as if you ever bother to put your clothes in it!" John said defensively.

Suddenly, John smacked his palm on the table. "I've had enough! Alright, you have two choices. A. You watch some crap telly, or B. Do what ordinary people do when they're bored."

"I'll take option C." Sherlock snarked back.

"Option C. See options above," the doctor replied firmly.

"Wait, what exactly do ordinary people _do_ when they're bored?" the detective asked curiously.

"Why, they read fanfiction, of course!"

* * *

Two weeks later, John cursed himself, repeatedly. He wished he had never mentioned that vile word to his peculiar flatmate. Of course, Sherlock had taken to it with enthusiasm to the point of obsession. He read, researched, and compared, convinced that he could uncover unknown truths hidden in the vast stores of information some called Fanfiction.

"John, do you think there's really something going on between my brother and Lestrade?" Sherlock asked him eagerly one day.

John choked on his cuppa.

"That would be wonderful! Imagine how much blackmail we could get on both of them!"

"Sherlock, why, what in-" the doctor stuttered.

"Well, if so many authors seem to think so, there must be something to it... Here, this one seems to be quite detailed..." Sherlock clicked on a link.

It was Sherlock's turn to choke on his cuppa.

* * *

Just as John thought things couldn't get worse, Sherlock began needling him for his opinion on medical diagnoses.

"Would you say I have an eating disorder? Most authors think it's anorexia, but some say it's bulimia. I don't even recall purging. Do you think I've deleted it? Oh, and apparently, I'm able to delete anything I don't like from my mind. This theory is present in 95% of fanfiction, and is therefore very likely true," the detective rambled.

John stared as Sherlock pressed his hands to his temples, closed his eyes in intense concentration, and mumbled, "Mycroft, command, delete," over and over again.

"John, John! I did it! I deleted Myc- oh," his face fell. "That was horrid! Now I can't get rid of his stupid face!" Sherlock began rubbing his eyes viciously.

"You were saying some thing about disorders?" his flatmate interrupted, desparate to distract him before he launched into an endless Mycroft related rant.

"Yes, do you really think I have Asperger's?"

"Ah, not quite..."

"But this post here says that in 'canon,' John tells Greg (whoever that is) that Sherlock has Asperger's. I've deduced that 'canon' refers to events that are well-documented and widely known. So, anything to say for yourself?"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Some more crack ideas. I would appreciate if anyone could suggest some common fanfiction tropes, so I might add more. Nothing with a rating beyond K, please.

* * *

There were times when things were better, even not too bad at all. Sometimes, John even found Sherlock's obsession amusing.

"You know, I think these people aren't always accurate," Sherlock mused.

"You _think_?" his flatmate asked incredulously.

"Of course. Look at how they describe my eyes. They've got so many variations, even I can hardly keep up. Ice blue, baby blue, aqua, turquoise, stormy grey, shining green, etc. etc. Oh, and Mycroft is a ginger, and he has _freckles._ How did he cover _that_ up?"

"That is all that you found inaccurate? Not all that tripe where you're paired with everyone, starting with Moriarty, going on to Molly, and ending with _yours truly_?"

The detective waved his hand dismissively. "People talk. There will always be rumours and speculations. We don't need to pay any attention to that, do we? What really interests me is the way some authors are convinced that all of us lead double lives?"

"Really? How so?" John was curious despite himself.

"Well, many authors have given us a second identity, as if we were living double lives. That's pretty foolish of them. If it's common knowledge, there wouldn't be any point, would there? Look, you're some bloke named Martin, you have Molly as Louise, and Gavin is named Rupert."

"How can you have memorized every silly name you've read on those stupid sites, and you still can't remember the _name_ of the man you've been working with for _years_?"

"This is _important_ , John. There might be some imposters out there acting in our names. We need to gather all the clues we can. Wait a minute... How is this fair? Even Mycroft got a name like 'Mark'. Why the heck would I go around with a name like 'Benedict Cumberbatch'? I might as well hang a sign on my back saying, 'I made up my name'. Isn't the point of being a spy to stay _inconspicuous_?"

"Hey, don't get your back up. There might be a real guy with this name, who will be mightily offended if you think his name is made up."

"Good thing he can't hear us, then."

Those were the better times.

* * *

This was one of the worst.

"John, we have to get out of here," Sherlock whispered, breathing heavily.

"I'm trying to treat my patient, do you _mind_?" John hissed angrily.

"Vatican Cameos," the detective whispered back, still clutching at John's sleeve.

"I'm very sorry, a family emergency has come up," John tried hard to smile at poor Mrs. Tesser, his impatient patient. "Dr. Sawyer will be with you shortly." He prayed, for the sake of Sherlock's as yet unbroken bones, that the emergency was real.

The taller man all but dragged him through the streets, while instructing him to "act normally, not as if you're panicking, you're giving yourself away."

"Gee, thanks, Sherlock, that's really helpful, especially with the way you're dragging me," John snarked.

In an abandoned alley, Sherlock stopped, and uttered, "Molly Hooper."

"Is she okay?" John asked in alarm.

"The signs were all there. I just didn't put it together. She's either working for Moriarty, or _Moriarty_ is working for _her_!"

"Are you NUTS?!" the smaller man roared.

"Shhh, you're giving us away. Think about it. What better disguise for a criminal mastermind than a mousy, quiet girl? Nobody would ever suspect her! And what better way to get close to me than acting as my pathologist? The bit with Moriarty was brilliant. Either he sent her to play the victim, or she sent _him_ to play the villain so _she_ could play the victim! The ultimate obfuscation!"

John punched him. Twice.

"I don't care what you think you're doing, you are NOT going to accuse innocent people, who care about you, of being criminal psychopaths!"

"But John!" Sherlock whined. "You didn't hear the alternate theory, which is even worse! She might be working for _Mycroft_!"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** I'm so happy to be getting so much support. We all need to laugh once in a while. Once again, if you have any ideas, common fanfiction tropes, etc. please let me know.

* * *

Sherlock was _burning his_ shirt. His ubiquitous purple shirt. His _favorite_ shirt.

"What the... Sherlock! What did that shirt ever do to you?"

The detective was staring at the charred remains with a look of intense hatred. "Those, those imbecilic _fangirls_! They were writing love letters to my shirt!" he spit out in disgust. "I couldn't wear it any more. I couldn't bear to look at it anymore."

"Ah," said the doctor. "What, exactly, did they write in those love letters?" John asked in amusement.

"Shut up. I'm trying very hard to delete it."

Speaking about fangirls, they were a species that mystified the detective, no matter how much research he did, and how many theories he came up with. "I don't get it, John. What is their goal? They don't seriously think I would be willing to date them, do they? And if they did, why would they proclaim their infatuation with me on the fanfiction websites?" He smacked his forehead in exasperation. "They have no clue that I'm actually reading it, and if they did, wouldn't they try to sound at least moderately intelligent, in order to show their worth? I mean, why would I be interested in shrieking chimpanzees?"

John usually reprimanded Sherlock for belittling people he didn't understand. Now, however, all he did was sigh in empathy. "I know, Sherlock, I know. You should have heard the shrieking chimpanzees that followed _me_ around yesterday."

"But why would they care about _you_?" Sherlock asked in bewilderment, as John's empathy instantly vanished.

* * *

For the third night in a row, John awoke from a peaceful slumber to the lovely strains of violin music. Well, not so lovely at three in the morning, especially when being played _right outside his door._ The good doctor had had enough.

"Sherlock Holmes! Is there any specific reason why you need to be playing at this specific time, at this specific location, _every bloody night_ when I'm trying to sleep?"

His flatmate looked at him, bewildered, offended, and- was he _hurt_?

"I was just trying to help you," he said earnestly. "I know, from reliable sources, that you suffer from nightmares due to your PTSD, and the majority of sources quote this hour as being your most difficult one. If you want me play at a different hour, why don't you just say so?"

"What, for the love of Mrs. Hudson's herbal so others, does your playing have to do with my nightmares?" John hissed through clenched teeth. Lack of sleep wasn't agreeing with him.

"My sources say that my violin playing is the only thing that soothes you and chases away your fears."

John was touched despite himself. "I appreciate your concern. However, would you kindly consult with _me_ next time, instead of relying on your 'sources'?"

Fanfiction had struck again.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing this. I needed this, after posting the last chapter of a story today, getting several hundred views on it, and not a single review! These drabbles remind me not to take fanfiction too seriously, it's just good fun!

Anyway, sorry for rambling. I'd like to thank Grissom rocks for contributing some of the ideas below. Keep them coming!

* * *

"Wrong, wrong, wrong."

"What is it now, Sherlock?"

"Why do some people seem convinced that we're raising a child together? Why would I ever do something as idiotic as that?"

"Ask your parents," John said tired lyrics.

"Exactly! Look at how that turned out! Luckily, they managed to have me after seven years of dealing with Mycroft. Not everyone can be that lucky, however. Look at your parents, for example."

John just rolled his eyes.

"There are so many different variations of this theory that I can hardly keep track. The child is either male or female, was either dropped on our doorstep, legally adopted, or biological -how... No, not the woman. That's preposterous!

"Oh, and the child seems to be a newborn one minute, a sixteen year-old the next, and five years old a moment afterwards."

Sher lock squinted at the screen.

"John, kindly inform me why, if I ever did want to bring upon myself the pestilence of raising a child, why would I name him Hamish?"

Sherlock disappeared into his Mind Palace, and his flatmate breathed a sigh of relief.

Suddenly- "John, _is_ there really a child living here at 221b?"

* * *

"Alright, what have we got here?" Lestrade asked in his professional tone.

Usually, it was him bringing cases to Baker Street. It was rare for the duo to bring a case to him, especially a personal one.

"We," Sherlock intoned gravely, gesturing at his colleague and partner-in-crime, - crime-solving, Lestrade corrected himself mentally, though with these two there wasn't always much of a difference- "are the victims of major identity theft."

"Details," George- erstwhile, Greg, instructed briskly.

In response, Sherlock slapped down a pile of photos on the desk. "Take a look," he instructed.

The photos contained shots of Sherlock and John, sometimes together, sometimes separately, wearing various disguises. Or _were_ they Sherlock and John? It was hard to tell.

The pictures had names under them. Greg squinted. Stephen Hawking... and this one was Stephen too. Dr. Stephen Strange. What a strange name. Who the hell was Smaug? And William Prince Ford. All these gentlemen bore a very strong resemblance to his consultant detective.

Then there was a gentleman named Tim Canterbury, who strongly resembled another guy named Lester Nygaard, who looked pretty similar to a poor bloke named Bilbo Baggins, who was basically a doppelganger for John Waton.

The DI tapped the photos with his pen, deep in thought. "What do you think is going on here?" he asked Sherlock.

"There seems to be a concerted effort to steal our faces, through cosmetic enhancement or perhaps surgery, we won't know until we meet the suspects, and give us new identities, probably to commit crimes and then frame us for it. There are even more personal out there that mimic us, but I haven't yet gathered all the evidence."

"How did you stumble upon this?" Lestrade inquired curiously.

Sherlock looked at him sternly. "My sources are _confidential_ " he said.

The DI thought he may have heard John snickering in the background.

* * *

"You see, the problem of gathering information is that you always have to double check your sources. Even when you see that some of the information is accurate, you need to check out all details, and teases apart the truth from all the hearsay and rumours," Sherlock lectured.

John yawned.

"Aren't you listening to me, John?" the detective scolded.

"Weren't you talking to the skull?" the doctor defended himself.

"No, the skull already knows this. It's you that still needs to learn this. Anyhow, the Fanfiction Network has found out one of my most closely guarded secrets, and I have no clue how. However, they have gotten a major aspect wrong."

"Alright," John said calmly, and turned back to the telly.

"They know that I keep on sending Mycroft his favorite food whenever he starts a new diet! How did they figure it out? But they say I send him cakes and candies. And all they talk about is how Mycroft loves cake! Well, they're wrong!" he said heartedly.

"Are they?" John asked absently.

"Absolutely! Mycroft doesn't particularly care for sweets. He loves fried fish, chips, and bacon butties." A gleam appeared in his eyes. "Say, why don't we send Big Brother a present right now? There's this new diet he's trying..."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Any ideas, please? I think I'm running out... It's fun to write, and I don't want to end it too fast!

* * *

"John," the consulting detective sunmoved his friend once again, to the latter's utter annoyance.

"I've had enough of your fanfiction obsession," the doctor snapped. "Just ignore whatever you've been reading.

"No, no. This is different. This is _serious_! You know what, read this page for yourself." Sherlock folded his arms as the doctor reluctantly complied with his request.

 _John and Sherlock were chilling in their apartment, the former watching his favorite soccer team on TV, while drinking a can of soda. He was wearing his favorite sweater, as the steam wasn't working._

 _The latter was looking out the window, watching the trucks rumble by, and the mass of people walking hurriedly on the sidewalk. "This guy is a total jerk," Sherlock complained. "He was supposed to show up promptly at ten. His word is worth garbage."_

 _"Hey, calm down, man," John said. "Just be cool, okay?"_

"Who wrote this rubbish?" John queried, bewildered.

"I think the CIA isn't done with us yet," Sherlock whispered, as his eyes roamed the room, looking for hidden cameras and bugs.

* * *

"They should at least get our names right," Sherlock said in a voice so flat, that John felt like hiding from the explosion that was sure to come.

"How can they take perfectly proper, reasonable names, and desecrate them to resemble a pitiful parody of the original?" the frustrated genius ranted.

"What, so you think Sherlock is a proper, reasonable name?" John asked, working hard to keep a straight face.

"You think you can escape this just because you're named 'John'?" Sherlock turned on him vehemently. His voice modulating to a falsetto, he thrilled, "Jaaaaaawn! Oh, my dearest Jawn! What would I ever do without my beloved Jaaaawn!"

"Alright, alright," Jawn- er, John- held up both hands, his face pale. "I admit it. They're annoying. So what do they call _you_? I mean, I didn't think it got much worse than what you're already named."

His friend glared at him murderously. "Lock. Locky. Sher. Sherl. And then, this one is too awful to mention. It's a _girl's_ name." John looked over at the screen, where Sherlock was pointing. He bit his lips hard to keep from bursting into laughter. It wouldn't to get his friend too upset, in the state he was in.

"Mycroft once called me that. Only, he added the name Temple to it, and said something about my curls."

"Oh, Heavens. What did you do to piss him off?"

"I called him Crofty. Oh, would you look at this!" he exclaimed suddenly. "They have some variations for Mycroft, too!" He jumped up and down in glee. "My, Mike, Mikey, Croft, Microsoft! I have to try that out as soon as possible!"

* * *

"This isn't possible..." Sherlock whispered, horrified. "There's no way they could have found out..."

The doctor returned from work to find his friend slumped over his laptop, shaking his head frantically in denial.

"No, that doesn't make sense," he whimpered. "I blackmailed Mycroft, Mummy doesn't know, John can't have found out...no, no, no."

"Sherlock?" he touched his shoulder gently.

"You might as well read it," the detective said quietly, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "The word is out, any way,"

John began reading.

 _Sherlock Holmes, eccentric genius, and the world's only consulting detective, had a deep, dark secret. In the dead of the night, under his covers, he would suck his left thumb..._


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock stumbled into 221b, holding a handkerchief to his face. He had managed to collect a split lip, a bloody nose, and a black eye, all in one evening. And all of that courtesy to the man he was so sure would greet him with giddy excitement.

 _That doesn't make any sense,_ he thought bitterly. _Why would he do that to me? Could he have changed so much in the time I was away?_

Naturally, Sherlock turned to his trusted source of information, gossip and speculation, which was how he viewed the vast network of Fanfiction. He hadn't had any access in the past two years of living off the grid, and was eager to check in.

"They knew, they all knew," he breathed. Some of the pieces were dated right after he supposedly jumped, others were as recent as yesterday. They varied in their predictions of how and when he would return, but they all _knew._

 _And nobody bothered to warn me,_ he fumed.

Although, no one had got it quite right. It was well known that John Watson would punch Sherlock Holmes in the face when he returned, but nobody had guessed he would do it _three times._

* * *

Apatently, there was another minor detail that everyone else was aware of, except for the great consulting detective himself. John had foolishly got himself entangled in a serious romantic relationship, with one Mary Morgan.

This was definitely Mycroft's fault, done only to spite him. Couldn't he have sent her to somewhere nice and warm, far, far away from England, like the Sahara desert, perhaps? Well, it was too late now, it would break John's poor, besotted heart. He never should have left John alone; just look at what kind of reckless behavior he engaged in when Sherlock wasn't there to rein him in.

It was John's loss. Sherlock Holmes coukd manage very well without John Watson at his side every second of the day. Those imbecilic Fanfiction authors, so sure he would fall apart without John. Well, he would prove them all wrong.

John was surprised when Sherlock made him tea the next time he visited, but not in a good way. He looked decidedly suspicious, actually.

"Is this another experiment, Sherlock?"

"Of course!" Sherlock replied, in his isn't-it-obvious-you-idiot voice.

"Then why exactly do you expect me to drink it?"

"Used your few brain cells for a change, John. There's nothing in the cups besides tea. The experiment relates to the conditions under which the tea is drunk."

"Alright," John sighed, and drank his cup under his friends hawk-like gaze.

"How was it?" Sherlock asked.

"Pretty good, actually," the doctor said mildly.

The detective smirked in triumph.

"Is the experiment complete?" his long-suffering friend asked.

"Don't worry about it," Sherlock waved his hand. Under his breath, he added something that John could have sworn sounded like, "See, I can _too_ make tea myself."

* * *

John thought he had seen it all. He didn't realize that the worst was yet to come.

"Look, John, what do you think of this story? I think it's brilliant."

John was instantly on alert. Sherlock never referred to fanfiction writer's as brilliant. He cautiously began reading.

 _Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, lived to solve crimes with his spectacular mind and finely honed deductive skills. His assistant, a man of lesser intelligence, who nevertheless sometimes managed to serve as a conductor of light, and who usually didn't mess up the crime scenes, was a short man of unremarkable looks, very unlike the detective._

 _They worked together with one of the lesser idiots that New Scotland Yard had miraculously managed to produce, a mostly annoying man who went by the name of Giles Lestrade._

The good doctor took a look at the author's user name, which was _world'sonlyconsultingdetective._

"Sherlock, what have you done!" he groaned.

"How did you guess it was me?" the detective asked curiously. "I took care to write anonymously."

Sherlock Holmes was writing fanfiction. Baker Street was falling.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** This was really fun to write. I'm mainly poking fun at myself, at getting stressed out when I don't get as many reviews as I want, or not the kind of reviews I like. And reading some other fanfiction and getting upset at the mistakes and quality of writing. We're all in it for the fun, so live, let live, and laugh!

* * *

Eagerly, Sherlock clicked on the link to read the two brand new reviews of his recently posted fanfic. (The title he had decided on was "The Adventures of the World's Greatest Detective, Sometimes Assisted By John Watson." Simple and to the point.)

The first one was short and to the point.

 _Is this supposed to be a parody or something?_

Sherlock shook his head in bewilderment. Those puny little minds, and their inability to differentiate between great writing and poor mimicry. How did these people stand to be themselves?

The second review was less, shall we say, pleasant.

 _What a pity that you were ever let out of your cave to be near a computer. Your writing is the worst example of stupidity masked as fanfiction that I've ever come across. No plot, awful characterization, clashes with Canon, and even gets the names of characters wrong. Do us all a favor and take up fishing._

Sherlock was familiar enough with the fanfiction community to know what had just happened. He had been flamed! Justice would have to be served. But how?

* * *

He thought he had the perfect revenge. It didn't seem to be working.

He had stopped writing. For two whole weeks, his fanfiction languished, un-updated and uncared for. He waited for the begging, the whining, the protests at how he must immediately showcase his brilliance once more. He got silence.

Of course. Oh, the simple little people and their paltry intellects, how could he ever have expected them to grasp the intricacies of fine writing? There was only one thing to be done. He would, as a public service, with as much patience as he could, step-by-step-by, teach them. The Fanfiction Network would be so very grateful.

* * *

"They're not," Sherlock told John.

"Who and what, Sherlock?" the still patient doctor asked.

"I told you. Or the skull. Or the chair. Or...something. Never mind. The Network, that's who. They're not grateful." He didn't need to specify which Network he meant.

"Would you mind telling me exactly what they should have been grateful for?"

Sherlock decided to show instead of tell.

There were seven responses to his reviews, all dripping with anger and vitriol. Sherlock was referred to as a 'troll,' 'stalker,' 'creeper', and a variety of other names that John had last heard only when on tour of duty. He searched and found one of the reviews that had set off the firestorm.

"My goodness, you left a review of, let's see, one hundred and seventeen lines, on a fanfiction that's barely half as long as that! Let's see, you wrote 'Prime example of the failing state school system in the Newcastle area, which you are obviously a product of.' And, over here, 'the dastardly usage of superlative adverbs must be the work of a negligible mind.' "

" Oh, and Sherlock, did you really have to put in all that stuff about the author's obvious Mummy issues and hopeless romantic entanglement, which you deduced by their use of question marks?"

"Why not? I was trying to help them, by pointing out the obvious flaws. How will they improve if they aren't aware of their deficits?"

"You could try leaving out the personal issues for one. That's irrelevant, and hurtful. And you can simply point out mistakes without using insults. You know, like being polite. Did anyone ever teach you how?"

"Stop that, John, I can be perfectly polite when I want to."

He would. He wouldn't go wrong, not this time.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Long time no write. You better all review, or I'll sic Sherlock on you, and you know how _that_ will end;)

* * *

It was good to see Sherlock laughing again, after the trauma of him being shot, and finding out who Mary really was. It didn't even matter that it was over a ridiculous piece of fanfiction.

"This author has got some sense of humor," Sherlock chuckled. "Listen to this."

The detective began reading, in an overdramatic, high-pitched voice. " _W_ _hen John and Sherlock got back to Baker Street, Sherlock rushed into his room and closed the door. Soon, the sound of heaving sobs was heard throughout the flat. John flung the door open, and put a tender hand on Sherlock's shoulder. 'Why are you crying, Sherlock? Did someone hurt your feelings again?'_ It takes some imagination to turn me into a snivelling child, doesn't it? And you sound like a kindergarten teacher, for goodness sake! Isn't that hysterical?"

"Uh, Sherlock..." John began hesitantly.

"Wait, it gets better. _Sherlock accepted a handful of tissues from his friend and blew his nose. 'It was Donavan,' he whispered brokenly. 'She called me a freak, again.'_ _John was horrified. 'Oh, my. That must have been so painful! Especially when it brought up all those memories of you being called a freak as a child! Do you want to talk about it some more?'_

"Now they've turned you into a therapist, who's going to discuss my _feeeelings_. How do you _feeeel_ about that, John?" Sherlock asked with mock sympathy.

"Fantastic," John said dryly. "But Sherlock, I think-"

"Let's me finish. This author is a real master of crack, which is how the fandom refers to a piece of complete nonsense. _'Also, A-Anderson,' the younger man stuttered. 'He said I'm a psy-psychopath.' John rubbed his back soothingly. 'You're not a psychopath, Sherlock. You're just a misunderstood young man, who's trying his best. Don't let them get to you.' Sherlock's sobs slowly subsided._ That's the end of this chapter."

"Sherlock, please answer me honestly. Doesn't it bother you at all when those knuckleheads call you names? I mean, of course you're not going to be crying about it, but they're still insulting you."

The detective's jaw dropped.

"Are you kidding me?! That's the highlight of my Work! The more times I can get Sally to call me freak, and Anderson a psychopath, the higher I score. It's harder than it seems to get them wound up like that. Pity that Anderson had to go and turn into a fan..." he shook his head sadly.

"Oh, and John, if you ever ask me to _talk_ about my _feeeelings,_ I'll make Moriarty seem like a kindergarten teacher."

"That would be a sight to behold," John said, sounding amused instead of frightened. "Oh, and Sherlock, you should take a look at the genre of this story." John walked away jauntily.

Sherlock read the tags. It was labeled as "Angst/Hurt/Comfort." He punched the screen, wishing he could visit some angst and hurt on one specific author. He would leave the comfort to John.


	9. Chapter 9

"Stupid, stupid, stupid."

Once again, the poor doctor was on the receiving end of a Sherlockian tirade. Even worse, one involving the Network.

"This tagging system is unscientific, inefficient, and totally haphazard. I can only put in two options. That's like giving someone the choice of only two organs to keep."

"You don't think you're being a _tad_ overdramatic?"

"In all the time you've known me, have you ever seen me invested in dramatics?"

John closed his mouth firmly.

"My newest masterpiece tell the adventures of a family that got hurt by a crime that was as mysterious as it was tragic. The criminal accomplished this feat by donning cowboy gear and and riding on a horse in a parody of a Western. He took off with the family's three children on his horse, riding through fields and into the woods, and then disappeared without a trace. Several farm workers witnessed the drama and gave chase, but to their horror, they found the horse lying dead on the floor in the woods, and the others had vanished.

"The mystery left the police scratching their empty heads, and gave fodder for rumours that something supernatural had occurred. Others suspected alien abduction, obviously having read too many sci-fi novels. The children's father, beset by angst, sought the advice of a police detective with whom he had a strong friendship. The detective directed him to the world's only consulting detective, who agreed to take the case despite his generally overloaded schedule.

"The detective ended up discovering a piece of poetry written by an ancestor of the family, alluding to a secret tunnel in the woods. Following the clues, the consulting detective found the entrance in a hollowed-out tree, which was covered with fake bark. He followed the trail and found the abductor and the children. The abductor was a distant relative who wanted a greater share of the inheritance, in order to pursue a romance with a woman of higher class. When the family refused to humor his request, he used his knowledge of the ancestral home to kidnap the children as leverage."

"Hmm, the story seems to have promise. So which genre do you think fits it best?"

"All of them."

John checked the genres available. There were twenty-one. And yes, Sherlock's story had alluded to all of them, in some way, if not quite in the way it was intended...

"Sherlock, I don't think it works that way," John said gently.

"That's what happens when idiots run a website. Perhaps I need to design my own. One that will work _properly._ "

The world waited with bated breath for the horrors that would soon be unleashed upon it.

 **A/N:** Can you find all the genres mentioned in the story? It's all there, you just have to look! My apologies to the wonderful staff of this site, Sherlock's opinion isn't meant to be taken seriously;)


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** For the record, I've created a poll on my profile. Go ahead and take it:)

* * *

"John, have you noticed any new neighbors here on Baker Street?"

"For the records, I no longer live in the area. How would I know?"

"There are all sorts of rumors going around, and I'm getting worried."

John Watson started. To hear Sherlock admit to being worried was cause for concern.

"Not... assassins?" he asked warily.

"No. Worse."

John paled.

"There's talk of a young woman moving in somewhere in these parts, and trying to get a hold over me. If rumors can be believed, her powers of deduction are greater than mine, and she possesses every advantage I don't have. She is a master manipulator and seductress and she's trying to get me to _fall in love,_ " the detective spat disgustedly.

"I'd love to watch that happening," John chuckled.

Sherlock glared at him murderously. "She's beautiful, sings like an angel, is kind and compassionate, yet cunning and assertive, she is an expert in martial arts, has connections all over the world, is a freelance secret agent, and I DESPISE her!" Sherlock ranted.

"Alright, calm down. I won't force you to marry her. Who is she, by the way?"

"I'm trying to follow some leads. She might be Mrs. Hudson's niece or granddaughter, Lestrade's daughter, or you secret sister-"

" _I have a secret sister?!"_

"It's just one theory. She goes by many names, but I think I've found her real one." The detective grinned smugly. "It's Mary Sue."

* * *

"What's that, Sherlock?" John eyed the colored papers stuck on the wall warily.

"Oh, that. An experiment, obviously."

"Ooookaaay," John said slowly. "So you're matching up random people, for what purpose again?"

Sherlock shook his head, as if to say, "Your hopeless."

"I've become aware of a phenomenon known as 'polling'-"

"Congratulations," John muttered sarcastically.

"A popular polling question is to give a choice, between two characters, of which one you would prefer to be stuck on a deserted island. In the interest of getting a better understanding of the ordinary mind, I've endeavored to create such a poll myself. I will give choices that don't require too much of a complicated thought process to pick, in the interests of keeping it- how would you put it?- relatable."

"That's nice," the doctor murmured absently, observing the papers. Sherlock had color coded each pair. "Donavan or Lestrade? Easy."

"I know. Lestrade would just stuff his face with doughnuts, while Donavan could at least make herself helpful by doing the washing and cooking."

"You ABSOLUTE-" John was too flabbergasted to finish.

"Mycroft and Moriarty?" he questioned tremulously, afraid to hear the answer.

"Moriarty would be much more entertaining. Besides, no one should ever be stuck by themselves with Mycroft. No one."

"Please tell me this is a mistake," John pointed to the papers reading "John" and "Anderson," respectively. He wondered if it was time to plug his ears.

"Anderson is much easier to shut up. Your talking would be distracting," Sherlock answered cheerfully.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** I sincerely apologize to all the people who regularly write disclaimers. I can see the point, even if, apparently, Sherlock Holmes does not :D

* * *

 _Is there no limit to people's stupidity?!_ Sherlock ranted internally as he began typing.

 _Author's note: I shall, under no circumstances, put any sort of disclaimer in this section. If you, my fellow fanfiction author, wonder why, I will attempt to explain in a way your miniscule brain can comprehend._ _First, notice the name of the site. Did you see the "fanfiction" in there? By definition, all works in here are based on the work of a published author, or producer, or whoever you happen to be a fan of. The "fiction" part of the compound word is indeed inaccurate and misleading, as I myself have found many pieces describing what has happened in reality. Nevertheless, no one suspects you of having written anything original (as if you were capable of that)._

 _Secondly, do you really have to proclaim that you aren't making money off this? Would you have imagined that I'd send you gratuities for your miserable murdering of the English language? Even if there exists some fool out there who is willing to part with his money in order to read your drivel, nobody cares._

 _A third point, and a very significant one, is that while their may perhaps be some point in telling us who you are (although I, personally, do not wish to hear about your three cats and your grandmother's colitis), there is no point in telling us who you are NOT._

 _For your sakes, I will give you some examples. If you proclaim that you aren't Steve Moffat, (whoever the hell that is), I haven't gained any new knowledge from that statement. You might still be Steve Moffat, and trying to misdirect us. Or you might truly be someone else, and that narrows the field to only the rest of humanity, several billion people more. Not very helpful._

 _Similarly, if you would want to proclaim that you indeed are Steve Moffat, you might be trying to misdirect us here, too. Should we believe you, we haven't narrowed down the field by much. The same principles hold true for proclaiming or denying yourself to be Mark Gatiss, The Mofftiss, or whatever other names or pseudonyms you might or might not use._

 _If you are still reading my note at this point, and are miraculously following it, I would like to proclaim that I am Sherlock Holmes. Make if it what you will._

 _Signed,_ world'sonlyconsultingdetective


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** No, this does not belong in the crossover section. This is the Sherlock characters discussing the Hogwarts housing system, and where they might have been placed. I've described it pretty clearly for any of you who might be unfamiliar with the system. Enjoy!

* * *

"John, have you ever heard of Hogwarts?"

"Definitely. I'm an alumnus, didn't you know?"

"So you are a product of an imaginary school for fictional wizards. You seemed quite real to me, at first."

"Sherlock, please don't tell me you've never heard of Harry Potter before."

"Oh, I've been meaning to ask you. Who's that, exactly?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I stumbled across this section on the Network, cross-overs, or something like that. Some conspiracists have me pegged as a wizard in disguise, and a graduate of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Some of them claim that Sherlock Holmes is my nom de plume, and I was born as Harry Potter."

"With you, I'm never sure. You seem to do six impossible things before breakfast every day. Say, what do you say to the Hogwarts houses?"

After a confused Sherlock had done thorough research, John suggested that they get themselves sorted. The detective scoffed at that. "I don't need an anonymous computer program to tell me about my character traits. Actually, let's try this. Let's make a list of people we know, and we'll each put them in the house we think they should be sorted. Then we'll compare. I'm sure it's pretty simple, and should match up perfectly."

Sherlock took a poster board and wrote down the four houses, then hung it on the wall. It read as follows:

Gryffindor: Brave (reckless)

Hufflepuff: Hardworking and loyal (simple-minded)

Ravenclaw: Academia (intellectual snobs)

Slytherin: Ambitious and Cunning (backstabbers)

Then there was a list of people:

Sherlock Holmes

John Watson

Mrs. Hudson

Gavin Lestrade

Fat and Nosy

Molly Hooper

Sally Donavan

Anderson

"Um, Sherlock? It's Greg, actually."

"I'm not sure what you're talking about."

John just sighed and corrected the name himself.

In less than three minutes, they had both finished. Sherlock had insisted they list the qualifications for the houses, too, and the doctor had followed instructions.

John proudly showed off his list.

Sherlock Holmes: Ravenclaw. Relentless in pursuit of knowledge.

John Watson: Gryffindor. Kind and courageous.

Mrs. Hudson: Hufflepuff. Loyal and kind.

Greg Lestrade: Gryffindor. Brave and chivalrous.

Mycroft Holmes: Slytherin. Cunning and manipulative (enough said.)

Molly Hooper: Hufflepuff. Kind-hearted and hardworking.

Sally Donavan: Slytherin. Conniving and backstabbing.

Anderson: Slytherin. Cheater and ambitious (wants to outperform Sherlock. Really?!)

"So, what do you think?" John asked smugly.

"Amazing, considering you got almost everything wrong. Even those you got right, didn't have the right qualifications specified."

"Alright, smarty- pants, let's see what you've got."

John should have known. He was still surprised.

Sherlock Holmes: Ravenclaw. Intellectual snob, with justification.

John Watson: Gryffindor. Stupidly reckless, terrible at acting.

Mrs. Hudson: Slytherin. Ambitious, cunning, vengeful. (Got her husband killed. Saved Irene's phone. Enough said.)

G. Lestrade: Hufflepuff. Slow-moving and Stupidly loyal.

Fat and Nosy: Hufflepuff. Even slower moving, relentless, and stupidly devoted to family matters.

Molly Hooper: Slytherin. Cunning. Hides behind silly clothes, strikes at the right moment.

Sally Donavan: Hufflepuff. Hardworking, though not quite successful, stupidly loyal to man she loves (Anderson.)

Anderson: Ravenclaw. Relentless in pursuit of knowledge, will solve a puzzle at expense of career.

John sputtered and splattered for several moments.

"Do you disagree with my assessments? I think I've justified them pretty well," the consulting detective said calmly.

"No, no, you do have a point. But- Mycroft a _Hufflepuff_? _Molly_ a Slytherin? And _Anderson_ a _Ravenclaw?_ "

"Yes, John, obviously. That's what I wrote."

"We are _so_ not doing this again. Ever."


	13. Chapter 13

John didn't get shocked by Sherlock Holmes anymore. Much. There were those few occasions that struck out as abnormal even from their general extraordinary existence. What John walked in on was definitely one such moment.

"Sherlock, dare I ask why you are pulling faces at the mirror? And such elaborate ones at that?"

"An experiment, John. Obviously!" the child in an overgrown body snapped, and promptly stuck out his tongue at the mirror.

"Ah, and here I thought the mirror had it coming," John replied sagely. "Why are you waggling your tongue?"

"I need to disprove an imbecilic theory that some have proposed," the detective replied, and then scowled fiercely at the mirror, showing his teeth. "Would you, for example, ever claim that I resemble a member of the family Mustelidae, of the subfamily Lutrinae?"

"Uh, English, please?"

"Whatever do they teach doctor's these days? An otter, John, an otter! Do you believe I resemble an otter?" Sherlock yelled in exasperation.

"An _otter_? Uh, I don't know, you look quite human to me, even if you don't always act it," John said, flustered.

"Look!" Sherlock yelled. "All these fanfics, written about otter!lock! They say I have a natural resemblance to an otter, and, I quote, 'Isn't he just so _adorable_ as an otter? It's just so much fun to write him that way!' Isn't that just dreadful?"

"Hmm, gimme a minute," the doctor said thoughtfully, and quickly pressed some keys into the computer. "Oh, wow, that's amazing! Look, that otter is holding its hands under its chin just like you do!"

"Otters don't have hands," Sherlock said automatically. Then he jumped up and rushed over to the screen. "What, how did you get these photos?" he demanded.

"I just googled your name plus the word otter," John said smugly.

On the screen were pictures of otters in different poses, juxtaposed with pictures of Sherlock mimicking their expressions and poses. Actually, it was unclear who (or what) was mimicking whom.

Sherlock sighed in defeat. "I didn't want you to find that."

John burst out laughing. "Oh, this is just too good! In fact, it's otterly great!"

"No puns, John," the detective groaned.

"Don't be such an otter spoilsport! You totally look alike!"

"JOHN!" Sherlock yelled in otter, err, utter frustration. "If you utter another word, I'll-" He broke off at his slip, and began dramatically tearing at his hair.

"Of course, you know that the otters are technically weasels," John said conversationally.

Sherlock had had enough. With a dangerous glint in his eye, he sweetly suggested, "John, why don't you google 'John Watson, hedgehog?'"

And the detective sat back, waiting, and savoring his sweet revenge.

 **A/N:** Thank you to Ranger-Corpses for suggesting the idea of otter!lock. Everyone, go check out those pictures if you haven't yet!


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:** So, I've been pretty frustrated by the sluggish rate of reviews I've been getting lately- sluggish as in everyone's mind compared to the great Sherlock Holmes. I cannot do much about it, but Sherlock has some great ideas. More of his ideas next chapter!

P.S. If my writing's gotten that terrible, please let me know, so I can get some writing therapy ASAP.

* * *

"Mate, can I ask you a question?"

Sherlock was in trouble. John only called him "mate" when that was the case. _Good thing I haven't told him my full name, at least. I would hate if he used that. What kind of dull parents give a child a name like "William," anyway?_

"So, the thing is, I've been noticing some weird things in your fanfictions-" John went on, not waiting for a response.

"Aha!" Sherlock crowed triumphantly. "So you do read them! After telling me it's my worst idea ever!"

"Well, er, Mary reads it, actually, and I just, uh, sort of follow along, you know..." John defended himself.

"Mary, too? You both must really like it!"

"Fine, fine, whatever you say," John grumbled. "The thing is, it's not actually your fics, it's the reviews."

Sherlock looked at his friend, his face carefully blank.

"Your latest story has exactly one hundred reviews, all posted within a two-hour time frame. All of them have been posted anonymously. Here, let's read some samples," John clicked at the laptop.

 _I luv ur stories. Shirlok Holmes is great._

 _Shirlok rocks!_

 _U are da most amzing athur. Shirlok is my favrit!_

 _We luv Sherlock!_

"Do I need to continue?" John asked sternly.

"I didn't do it!" the author/detective protested.

"Of course you didn't," the doctor said agreeably. "You would rather waltz with Anderson than use such atrocious spelling. So, whom did you pay?"

"Only a member of my homeless network. She could use the money," Sherlock said defensively.

"But _why,_ Sherlock?"

"Because I wasn't getting any review!"

"And?" John persisted.

"Don't you see, John? If my stories don't get reviews, they don't get any readers. Studies have shown that the majority of readers prefer to click on stories that have some reviews. If nobody reads it, then I have failed in my goal of educating the ignorant masses in proper deduction techniques!"

"Ah, I see. So will this anonymous woman review all your future stories, too?"

"No, she won't need to! You see, that's the brilliance of my plan. Once people have read some of my stories, they'll keep on coming back for more! And then they'll leave reviews, which will bring even more readers!"

"Sherlock," John said gently but firmly. "You know, it's a great plan, but there's a major flaw. Anyone reading the reviews will get suspicious. They might even report you to management, who might, I don't know, investigate or something, and even close your account."

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Nobody reads the reviews."

"Well, how do you think I noticed this?"

Sherlock's shoulders slumped, but only for a moment. "Don't worry, John, I'll think of something," the detective said nonchalantly.

"That's _exactly_ why I'm worried," John said unhappily.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock was positioned in his classic thinking pose, when his eyes suddenly flew open.

"John!" he called excitedly. "I have the most fantastic idea ever! Why don't you and Mary write my reviews?"

John didn't answer.

"John?" Sherlock called again. "Oh, he left. Yesterday, I think. Never mind, I'll call him."

John, as it turned out, was less than enthusiastic. "No, Sherlock, it's just not right. It's like the fake online product reviews. You're fooling people, and you get something you didn't earn."

Sherlock hung up on him, and called Mary. Surely an ex-assassin wouldn't be so hung up on little details like fairness?

"Sorry, love, but I agree with John on this one," she said, way too cheerfully. "There ain't no such a thing as a free lunch."

"Then what am I supposed to do?" the disgruntled detective asked.

"Earn it yourself. See what others are doing that makes them successful. Improve your writing. If all fails, beg your readers for reviews. Sometimes that works, too."

Sherlock hung up on her without a goodbye. Yet he couldn't get her words out of his mind. Perhaps there was something to it?

* * *

The Watson couple was eagerly looking forward to see what their ridiculous detective would come up with. They were sure, whatever it was, it would at least be entertaining. One evening, they clicked on the site, and found Sherlock's latest story.

 **The Adventures of the Sexy Detective and his Hot Companions**

By: World'sonlyconsultingdetective

Summary: This fiction contains Johnlock, Adlock, Sheriarty, Johniarty, Mormor, Mystrade, Lestrolly, Sherlolly, Warstan, and Sherstan. Read at your own risk!

The Watsons looked at each other for several long moments. "Do you think we should try?" John whispered.

"Is this Sheriarty what I think it is?" Mary questioned.

"It's not about Moriarty and his bottle of Sherry," John said glumly.

"And Johniarty... Oh my. He's taking it a wee bit too far, isn't he?"

"Let's get it over with," John said bravely.

"Let's," his wife agreed. They began reading:

 _Author's Note: Thank you for participating in my latest experiment, which aims to discover just how many imbeciles are currently reading fanfiction. By clicking on this link, you have just proven yourself one of them._

 _The first reason being, your having any interest in "ships," which are a ridiculous indulgence in wanton sentiment, and cloud your ability to think logically._

 _The second reason, of course, is your interest in these particular ships, which are, with few exceptions, completely ludicrous and impractical. If you believe, for example, that either Sherlock Holmes or John Watson would ever get romantically involved with Jim Moriarty, then you should schedule an appointment with a competent psychiatrist._

 _The third reason is, of course, your utter lack of taste in reading choices. Any story that focuses on multiple relationships at a time, especially such ridiculous ones, wouldn't be worth your time._

 _However, once you have already clicked on this story, please do enjoy the grand adventures of the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, whom along with his barely competent sidekick, Watson, solves a murder by successfully analyzing thirty-two different versions of tobacco ash._

 _When you have finished reading, you will surely be motivated to leave a review detailing your enjoyment of the fanfiction._

Sherlock was pressing an ice pack on his shiner later that night, while he was being lectured by John on his novel approach, which was, as it turned out, "a bit not good."

"But why the punch, John?" the detective whinged.

"That's for the Sherstan pairing you included. Keep your hands off my wife, Sherlock Holmes!"

* * *

The next installment of Sherlock's story contained a much shorter, and somewhat politer, author's note.

 _Author's Note: To all those who reviewed, thank you._

 _To all those who didn't, I know who you are. And where you live._

 _I wish you a pleasurable read._

* * *

 **A/N:** To all those who reviewed, thank you.

To all those who didn't, I may not know who you are, or where you live, _but I can find out._

I hope you've had a pleasurable read;)


	16. Chapter 16

"How dare they waste my time like that!"

"Who, Sherlock?"

"The authors who post a chapter so short, it takes longer to log in than read it!"

 **A/N:** Sorry- not.


	17. Chapter 17

"Hi, Sherlock! It's so nice of you to call to check up on your goddaughter. Rosie's cough is much better, and her temperature has been stable since-"

"Mary, I'm not calling to check up on your spawn. Going by genetic probabilities, the chances of a simple bronchitis felling Little Watson are infinitesimally small. What Afghanistan and freelance assassin work hasn't done to her parents, a simple childhood illness won't do to the the offspring."

"Wow, Sherlock, that's harsh," Mary laughed, unperturbed. "But I know you really care."

Sherlock grimaced. That woman really knew how to get his goat. He decided to ignore her needling and get to the _real_ purpose of his call. (And if he had been just a tad concerned, that was nobody's business.)

"I'm conducting some vital research, and would like to have your input," he droned. "In your opinion, why do people write fanfiction?"

"Oh, fanfiction!" Mary giggled. "I would say some people have the need to show off their brilliance, and of course, feel the need to correct ignorance when they see it."

Sherlock let out a breath. "Alright, let me clarify. Why do people, _besides_ myself, write fanfiction?" he asked impatiently.

"Honestly, I think humans are social creatures, and like to feel connected to others. Sharing an interest in the same stories and characters give them a sense of belonging. Fanfiction forums allow people to share their ideas and creativity, and help them feel part of a community."

"Thank you, Mary," Sherlock said, before asking to speak to John, the next name on his list.

"Fun," said John.

"Fun? That's it?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

"Yes, fun. You don't have to overturns everything. Most people don't, you know. Fanfiction is sort of an extension of a story or show you enjoyed, and you get to use your creativity and play with your favorite characters."

"Dull," said Sherlock. "But that's what most people are, anyhow."

The next person that was called sounded less than pleased with the question. "Why, exactly, should I care why goldfish spend their time on some useless pursuit, brother mine?" Mycroft snapped.

"It's for scientific research," Sherlock snapped back defensively. "Also, if you answer that, I'll take that boring case you've been nagging me about."

"We have a deal. So, I'm assuming that many goldfish fancy themselves to have talents and abilities far beyond their true capabilities. When they read or watch something, many times they believe they can do a better job than the original. So they attempt to show the world their own version of how they would write the original stories, or how they would improve on it. Then they get validation from their even smaller-brained fans, which in turn encourages them to write even more fanfiction. It becomes a vicious cycle which is forever lowering the collective IQ's of the fandoms."

"That's a very different way of looking at it," Sherlock mused. "I'm assuming your response has nothing to do with the fact that I myself write fanfiction."

"Ah, do you? How productive of you," Mycroft drawled smugly.

"Shut up, Mycroft."

 **A/N:** I want to write another chapter, with Sherlock interviewing other characters for their input. Which characters would you like to see answering the question?


	18. Chapter 18

"Mrs. Hudson, why do people write fanfiction?"

Whatever response Sherlock was expecting, it wasn't the blush that spread across his landlady's cheeks.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock yelped. "You didn't!"

"Nah, really just some minor stuff," the old lady hurried to placate him. "I thought people weren't aware of the truth like I was. So I just told it in my own words."

Sherlock was confused. "What truth?"

Mrs. Hudson looked flustered. "You know, about you and John. I think it's really lovely, but I do understand that John doesn't like to publicize it. So I write it as fanfiction, so I can tell John I didn't _really_ betray your secret. It's fiction, after all, right?"

"Mrs. Hud- wait, _you_ are behind all that ridiculous stuff written by _notyourhousekeeper_?"

"Really, Sherlock, there's no need to be insulting."

"Mrs. Hudson! We never- John's not gay, and neither am I. Did you really have to put in all those lurid details? I spent _days_ in my Mind Palace deleting all of that!"

"Oh, you're not-?" Mrs. Hudson sounded greatly disappointed. Then she smiled slightly. "Oh, then it must be _her_! How sweet! I'm sorry, dear, I need to run over to Mrs. Turner to use her- never mind."

Fans of _notyourhousekeeper_ were astounded when the avid Johnlocker turned into a Sherlollyian.

Lestrade's response to the question was thoughtful and measured. "If I would write fanfiction- which isn't my department, by the way- I would do it as a sort of fantasy wish-fulfillment. I would make certain people more _cooperative,_ less _abrasive,_ and _nicer_ in general." He looked pointedly at the detective.

"Yes, Sally can be a nightmare," Sherlock agreed.

Lestrade sighed. "You know exactly whom I meant. Anyway, I would have DI Lestrade solve his cases with his usual skill and alacrity, and everyone would actually get along at my crime scenes. You know, it might be cathartic for me to write like that. Perhaps..."

Sherlock was torn between being horrified and delighted that G. Lestrade had finally discovered fanfiction.

There was one person he needed to ask the question, but was unavailable through his usual means of communication. So Sherlock dove into his Mind Palace, and headed towards the dungeon.

"Oh, look, Sherlock is back again!" crowed the man in the padded cell. "Did you miss me?"

"Of course not, Jim," Sherlock scoffed. "I merely have a question for you. Why do people write fanfiction?"

"Fanfiction! Love it!" Jim squealed. "Even wrote some m'self. Did you read the one where I headed a zombie invasion, and had you and your little pet be put into-"

"No."

"Oh, pity. What about the vampire one, where I drank your sweet, red bl-"

"Shut up."

"Come on, Sherlock, it's only some stories. Ah, you want some sweet, fluffy ones? Well, how about the one where Daddy Jim adopts poor widdle Sherlock, and give him a happy home?"

"I would say you're nuts, but unfortunately, you're in my head this time, and I'm not sure what all this says about my sanity."

 **A/N:** Thank you to all my reviewers for your inspiration, and I hope you enjoyed. I think I'll do one more chapter with different characters.


	19. Chapter 19

"Molly, why do people write fanfiction?"

Molly's eyes turned the dreamiest Sherlock had ever seen. "I always wish I could own my favorite characters. I feel so _connected_ to their struggles, their pain, their triumphs. I feel like I want to be part of their lives. If I would have the time, I might have written some myself."

"So, you haven't yet?" Sherlock was greatly relieved. All the Fanfiction Network needed was some _more_ fluff and utter sentimental clap-trap. He would need to find a way to keep Molly out.

"No, but sometimes I think I should. Can you imagine, I can give poor Harry loving home, or even give him his parents back, so he wouldn't have to sleep under that horrid cupboard, and all that just with a swish of my pen!"

Sherlock was completely lost. "Whoever that Harry is, don't you think you should call the authorities on his guardians? Even _I_ know better than to put a kid in a cupboard!"

"Oh, Sherlock, Harry Potter isn't real, although I could really use some magic in my life, every now and then," Molly said wistfully.

"So all that emotional attachment is for _fictional characters_?" Sherlock burst out. "I'll never understand human beings. Never."

Mummy turned out to be quite obliging. "It's so wonderful that young people these days are using their talents to write!" she gushed. "I'm also a writer, you know."

"Yes, Mummy. However, I think your book on mathematic theory is somewhat different than fanfiction."

"It doesn't really matter. People should do what they enjoy. I was just telling your father how much I enjoyed Les Miserables, and how I think we should see it again. And here you called, and started speaking about this very topic! Oh, Sherlock, that's wonderful! We'll send you your ticket as soon as we get it. It's a pity you missed it that first time!"

Sherlock groaned. There was a reason he didn't call Mummy too often, as he was now sharply reminded. Despite her almost reasonable intelligence, she did understand very little.

 _One more try,_ he thought to himself.

"Why do you think people write fanfiction?" Sherlock asked his next target.

"It's cool," the target explained patiently. "You can write about anything you want, and nobody knows who you are, so they can't tell you off. You can tell a story with all the gory parts, and you'll get fan reviews instead of detention. Also, you can write yourself into any story as an OC. I would write myself as Spiderman's partner, only I would be _way_ cooler than him!"

"That's the most sensible answer I've recieved," Sherlock responded. "Thank you, Archie."


End file.
